


Tears

by mistleto3



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, M/M, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistleto3/pseuds/mistleto3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikoto can only remember ever crying once- the first time he woke up after Tatara died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://mikototsu-trash.tumblr.com/post/140525302538/headcanon-mikoto-can-only-remember-ever-crying) headcanon that I had and couldn't help elaborating upon because I'm a huge masochist. 
> 
> This story can also be found on [Tumblr](http://mikototsu-trash.tumblr.com/post/140570452133/tears)

The Red King never cried. The world had been cruel to him, and he had suffered, but he wasn’t the sort of person to use tears to cope with his pain. He preferred to suppress. To bury. All of the burning agony of keeping the vast and terrible destructive power of a King contained inside his body. All of the paralysing terror that he would not be able to contain that power, that he would be responsible for the annihilation of an entire city, and the death of everyone he had ever cared about. He crushed it, condensed his every negative emotion, every stab of pain, down as small as he could get it, like lava solidifying into stone. He carried the weight of his fear around with him, hidden deep within his body behind an aloof persona and a fearsome reputation. Nobody would know how much he despised himself. 

Nobody except Totsuka Tatara. What a reckless child, impervious to every bit of common sense that should have told him to be wary of someone like Mikoto. Mikoto had ensured that “stay away” was written all over the shell that he had constructed for himself, but that boy, that careless boy, made it his goal to crack him open anyway, to expose the person hiding behind the crown of the Red King. When nobody else even noticed that that dangerous exterior was nothing more than a carefully constructed mask, Tatara was already picking off the flaking paint, determined to see the reality of the man beneath. And he did it so effortlessly. He didn’t even need words to find that small, black lump of congealed self-hatred that Mikoto had hidden right at his core, and begin chipping it away. Every gentle, calming touch of Tatara’s delicate hand, every kind word, every reminder that his powers existed to protect, and Mikoto forgot a little more why it was that he hated himself. The pain dulled, and for someone who had been in agony as long as Mikoto had, any relief was bliss. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Tatara. What did he have that drew this stubbornly optimistic man to him? Why did Tatara so desperately want to see his flaws? Why did seeing them only make him more determined to be with Mikoto?

The Red King tried so hard not to fall in love. Whenever he was struck by the desire to kiss that stupid smiling face, to wrap his fingers around the fist pressed against his palm and never let go of his hand again, there was always a quiet twang of revulsion in the back of his mind. How dare he fall in love? What right did he have to let someone get any closer to him, to put them in the line of fire? The thought of hurting Tatara terrified him. But on those quiet nights, when Tatara would wake Mikoto from a nightmare by tucking himself into the King’s embrace, pressing his back against Mikoto’s chest and pulling his arms around himself, he forgot his fear. He forgot his pain. The nightmares shied away from the warmth of Tatara’s slim body. How could someone so fragile keep so much terror at bay so easily? At times like that it was impossible to resist falling in love. He felt like he was holding Heaven in his arms, and he never wanted to let go. Not that Mikoto believed in Heaven, and even if he did, someone like him would not be welcome there. But he didn’t need to be; his Heaven was right here, in their bed. Mikoto realised that all at once, the first night that they slept together as a couple, feeling the warmth of Tatara’s soft, bare skin pressed against his side as he cuddled up to him. Tatara had nodded off with his head on Mikoto’s chest, listening to his heartbeat as Mikoto stroked his hair. Staring up at the ceiling with his lover tucked under his arm, listening to his gentle breathing, was the first time in Mikoto’s life that he had been happy, really, truly happy. For once, nothing hurt. Because of that idiotic, reckless, perfect man who dozed with his arm thrown across Mikoto’s chest. This was his Elysium. 

Or, it was. 

His eyes opened to a dark room and the sound of his blood thundering in his ears as his heart raced. The back of his neck was damp with cold sweat. Nightmares, visions of the city burning around him, standing in the centre of a crater with rubble and ash and death at his feet, his family dead, his sword falling… It used to be a routine for him, waking up like this, though things had gotten better since Tatara moved in. Most nights, he could sleep through until dawn. Evidently he hadn’t quite made it that far tonight. He looked at the clock on his bedside table: 3:47am, on the 9th of December. He sighed and reached for his lover. 

He found only cold sheets on Tatara’s side of the bed. His hand closed on the fabric in desperation, as if grasping for him would make him reappear. No physical pain that Mikoto had ever felt could compare to even the shadow of the devastating agony that consumed him in that moment. There was nothing but aching, burning emptiness; it was as if his own flesh was being torn away from his body. 

Tatara was dead. He had seen his body. Seen him lying in the morgue, his eyes closed, almost peacefully. He was still smiling, like he had been on that first perfect night, when he was asleep in Mikoto’s arms. But his hand was cold to the touch. This was the first time Mikoto had slept since then, since the phone call from Izumo in the middle of the night. 

The Red King never cried. But as he lay there, alone, he felt his breath snag in his throat, and tears burn in his eyes. His Heaven was gone, torn out of his hands. To someone who has tasted paradise, held it in his arms, and had it snatched from him, all that was not Heaven was Hell. He grabbed Tatara’s pillow and buried his face in it, curling around it like a child. The smell of his lover’s skin still clung to the fabric. He gasped in a breath of that scent, and as he exhaled, a sob tore its way out of his throat. For the first time in his life, Mikoto cried. 

That was the last time in his life that he did. In those final few days, the only thing he could do was suppress. If he allowed himself to feel that pain again, it would kill him. Not that he cared, he had gotten so used to having Tatara’s soothing presence close by that every second that passed without him only became more agonising. Tatara was like heroin to him, a sweet, blissful high that made everything okay again. He hadn’t prepared himself for the withdrawals. The only thing keeping him from surrendering himself to the void was revenge. The only just punishment for Tatara’s murder was death. After that, Mikoto could give up. 

There was a look of peace in his eyes as he stood, arms outstretched, welcoming the darkness. He did not believe in heaven. But nothingness for all eternity was infinitely more inviting than even another minute alone in this life. He felt no pain as the sword slid between his ribs; the sharp sting of metal piercing his skin could not begin to compare to the pain he had been tormented by in the last 11 days. A weight was lifted from him as he fell forward against his friend’s shoulder. His vision blurred, began to turn white around the edges. 

He was selfish. He knew that. He let Tatara get close, even when he knew that it was bound to get him hurt one day. He made his friend do the dirty work for him; he didn’t have the strength to finish it himself. He had considered it; he had pressed the cold muzzle of a gun to his temple, but the thought of what Tatara would have said stayed his trembling finger. And now he was leaving his clansmen behind to clean up his mess. What about Izumo, who would lose his two best friends in under a fortnight? What about Anna? Mikoto and Tatara were the closest thing she had to parents, Mikoto was her only warm place, and he was abandoning her. 

“Sorry…” he confessed to Reisi. And he was. His guilt weighed heavily upon him, but it could not compete with the pain. The pain that was now, at last, beginning to drain out of him, as his blood poured onto the snow and numbness crept across his skin. Relief. 

“King.”

Mikoto opened his eyes and winced against the intensity of the white light that filled the air. That voice…

“You came a bit too early, King.” Tatara stood above where Mikoto lay on the ground, a light-hearted smile on his face. 

“Yeah, sorry.” 

Tatara offered a hand to helped Mikoto to his feet, and Mikoto drew him tightly into his arms, his hands shaking as he gripped Tatara desperately against his body. Tatara was here. He could feel the warmth of his skin and the softness of his hair. Hear his breath. Smell the clean fragrance of his soap. Mikoto’s eyes burned again, and a tear dripped onto Tatara’s shoulder. Tatara ran his fingers comfortingly through his hair, and kissed another tear off his cheek. 

“I’m sorry.” Tatara murmured.

Mikoto cupped his jaw and kissed him, and they didn’t need to say any more. They simply stood, holding each other, a wordless understanding between them. 

Mikoto hadn’t believed in Heaven. He had been wrong; his Heaven was right here.


End file.
